The Distant Blade
The broth was too thick. I scraped the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon, the sound wet and rhythmic in the silent kitchen. Outside, the bells of St. Jude’s tolled the hour, a dull thud against the stone walls of Oren. I was thirty-two years old and I had not slept properly in three months. My hands shook, not from cold, but from the tremor of a man who has forgotten how to be invisible. I...
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